Evermore

by C. J. Archer

  “I think a few might.” I giggled and he grinned. Indeed, there was no escaping for us. Still everyone’s gaze was on us, some openly, others not quite so obvious.

  A little while later, Jacob and I found ourselves separated once again. He was so tall, however, that I could make out his head over the top of everyone else’s. Every once in a while he looked for me and when he spotted me, would smile, then turn back to speak to whomever had his attention.

  I made my way into the refreshment room where Celia and Louis spoke quietly to one another in the corner, perhaps discussing their upcoming move to Melbourne. They’d been inseparable all week, and now that I knew they were my parents, I couldn’t bear to watch them together. I suppose it was sweet, but they were my parents! Did they have to fawn over one another in public?

  I was inspecting the array of bonbons, ices and, cakes on the table when a loud whisper caught my attention, which I suspect was the intention.

  “I’ve heard her called pretty,” said a young lady seated near the door. She was speaking to two gentlemen hovering near her like bees around a honey pot. She was quite the beauty with curling golden hair, rosy cheeks, and the sort of face men wrote poetry about. From the proud lift of her chin and the fluttering of her lashes, I suspected she knew it too. “Do either of you find her pretty?”

  “She’s tolerably pretty, I suppose,” one of the gentleman said with a lazy drawl. “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “You mean exotic?” the girl replied in her throaty whisper.

  “Exotic?” the other gentleman said. “You call that…thing exotic?” The biting sneer cut clear through the room. He wasn’t even trying to keep his voice low. “She looks like a savage, fresh off the ship. And she’s quite mad, I believe. Thinks she can see ghosts, don’t you know.” He laughed as if he were sharing a joke with his friends.

  But it was no joke. He spoke loudly enough for me to hear every word. I looked down at the table, but it blurred and my fingers fumbled with the cake. But I would not cry. Not here. Not now. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

  “Of course, she was caught out as a fraud recently,” he went on. “Don’t know why Lord Preston allows her into his house. He ought to have his chums at Scotland Yard investigate her. Best place for her is in—”

  His tirade ended with a gurgle. I turned and saw Jacob clutching the man’s necktie. He’d lifted him a clear inch off the floor.

  “You do NOT speak about her like that,” Jacob growled. A pulse throbbed in his tightly clamped jaw. “Not in my presence, nor out of it. She’s a better person than you will ever be, Littleton, and she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. If you dare speak of her in such a way again, I will throttle you.” He gave the man a shake. “Understand?”

  Littleton’s face turned a bright shade of purple and his eyes bulged dangerously. He nodded quickly, as best he could, and squeaked, “Yes, yes!”

  I placed a hand on Jacob’s arm. “Come and have some lemonade with me,” I said gently.

  He lowered Littleton who tugged at his tie and cleared his throat. Jacob turned fierce eyes on me. He was still seething with anger, but it was slowly dampening as I held his gaze, silently willing him to be calm once more.

  I was about to steer him away when his mother sailed up to us. From the harried look on her face, I suspect she must have witnessed what had happened or been told about it. She gave Jacob an admonishing frown, which he didn’t seem to notice, and smiled sweetly at me.

  “I think this might be a good time to tell everyone about your engagement, Jacob,” she said in a sing-song voice that reminded me of Celia and how she would pretend everything was all right when it was not.

  “Engagement?” the young lady seated by the door said. Her hand fluttered at her chest and for a moment I thought she might burst into tears, so forlorn did she look.

  “Yes,” Jacob said in a voice that didn’t hide the fact he was still angry. He took a deep breath and the tension seemed to leave his body. He clasped me suddenly round the waist and hooked me into his side. It felt so right to be there. Perfect.

  His mother gasped. “Jacob,” she hissed, “everyone can see you.”

  “I know,” he said, breaking into a grin. “That’s the whole point. I want to give them something scandalous to talk about.” He tipped me back and kissed me on the mouth. It was a shocking thing to do in public. Gentlemen of Jacob’s ilk were not supposed to show affection toward anyone except in private, but he didn’t seem to notice the gasps and his mother’s protests.

  I certainly didn’t care. I was consumed by that kiss. Totally, absolutely devoured by the love of my life. The kiss was thorough and possessive, staking his claim, an attempt to show everyone that I was his. I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him to me. He felt so solid and tasted delicious, and I let him kiss me until I was boneless.

  I expected his father to stride up and attempt to wrench us apart, but instead, something quite different happened.

  Somebody clapped. Then another joined it, and another. Before long, the applause became deafening.

  Jacob grinned against my mouth. “I love you, Miss Emily Chambers. And now the world knows it.”

  THE END

  A message from the author:

  I hope you enjoyed reading EVERMORE as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author, getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if you liked this book please consider telling your friends and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. If you would like to be contacted when I release a new book please send an email to cjarcher.writes@gmail.com and I will add you to my New Releases list. You will only be contacted when I have a new book out.

  Books for teens by C.J. Archer:

  The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #1)

  Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #2)

  Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #3)

  Books for adults by C.J. Archer:

  Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury’s Players #1)

  Scandal’s Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury’s Players #2)

  To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury’s Players #3)

  Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)

  Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)

  Surrender

  Redemption

  The Mercenary’s Price

  How To Contact C.J. Archer:

  Blog/web: http://cjarcher.com

  Email: cjarcher.writes@gmail.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/cj_archer

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CJArcherAuthorPage

  Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/user/show/4874696

  ***Read on for an excerpt of Redemption, a paranormal romance for readers over the age of 18***

  REDEMPTION

  CHAPTER 1

  It all started with the dog—a real one, not a mech one. Not that Matilida Upton blamed the poor creature for changing her life in a most dramatic and permanent fashion. No, the blame could be laid squarely at the studded boots of Sir Magnus Grimshaw, the queen’s Chief Royal Inventor.

  Tilda knelt on the slippery flagstones of the lane running alongside her London townhouse, the elongated and fitted cuirass style of her bodice lending a degree of difficulty to the task. She peered into the underground cavity, wrench in hand. The blasted air filtering system had stopped working again and Tilda, being the only one in the household of four women who knew how to fix it, tinkered with the gears. She loosened a nut and a burst of steam shot out of the pipe, fogging up the goggles of her leather and brass mask. It would have scalded if she hadn’t taken the precaution.

  She set the wrench aside and peered into the cavity. Warmth and the scent of damp metal drifted out but the smell of something more putrid penetrated the mask’s breathing holes. Urine. She wiped the goggles and looked closer. Something was in there. A grey ball of fluff. She reached in and pulled it out. It whimpered and stared up at her with huge brown eyes.


  “Hello, little one. Who do you belong to?” There was no one else in the lane, and certainly no one looking for a dog. The animal blinked at her and snuggled closer. It was made of flesh and fur, which didn’t necessarily categorize it as a real animal, but Tilda could feel little ridges through its coat which were unmistakably bones and not metal rods or gears. It was also warm and rather affectionate. Clearly it was someone’s pet and used to human contact.

  She took it into the kitchen and set it down on the wooden table on which Mary had just finished preparing the vegetables to go into the soup. The maid glanced up from her stool near the cast iron oven and dropped her ladle, handle and all, into the cauldron. “Ew, what’s that bedraggled thing, miss?”

  “A dog,” Tilda said, removing her mask and hanging it on the hook near the door. The air was cleaner in the house than outside but still not fresh. With the filter not working, it would remain that way. “A real one,” she added. “I found it outside.”

  “Are you sure it’s a dog?” Mary said, bending down to get a closer look at the animal. She screwed up her nose. “Could be a rat.” The dog peered at her beneath fluffy grey brows then buried its nose under its paw. “I mean, who would want a real dog? You have to feed and clean a real dog, and pick up its whatsit.”

  Tilda patted the animal’s matted hair. “Shall we clean it up and find out?”

  “Your aunt won’t approve,” Mary said, casting a cautious eye at the door.

  Rather eerily, the door opened but instead of Aunt Winnie, Tilda’s sister bounced in. Letitia was always bouncing. She had far too much energy for a genteel lady, even one of only eighteen. “There you are, Til,” Letitia said. “I’ve been—. Oh! What are you doing with that rat?”

  “I think it’s a dog,” Tilda said.

  “A real one,” Mary added.

  Tilda explained how she’d come across it. “We’re about to clean it up. Perhaps there’s a clue to its owner beneath all this hair.”

  “Or perhaps there isn’t.” Letitia clasped her hands as if in studious prayer and bounced. “If not, can we keep it, Til? Pleeeease. I’ve always wanted a dog.”

  “Mr. Cranker has mech ones for sale,” Mary offered. “With red fur and everything. Red suits your coloring, Miss Letitia.”

  Letitia stuck out her bottom lip. “I rather like the idea of a real one,” she said. “I could take it for walks. And buy it a pretty red collar, studded with pearls—”

  “Before you get carried away, we can’t afford pearls,” Tilda said. She sighed. Her sister was a delightfully fun companion but she was rather trying at times. “And I think you’ll grow tired of walking a dog every day.”

  “And scooping up its whatsit,” Mary said. “The Council for Cleanliness doesn’t like dog mess on the pavements.”

  Hence the growing rate of mech pets instead of real ones in the city. “Besides, it may have an owner already,” Tilda said. “Come on, let’s clean it up before Aunt Winnie returns. She’ll have a fit if she sees a dog in the kitchen.”

  Mary dipped the brass temperature stick into a small pot of water sitting on the stove then wiped it on her apron. “This’ll do,” she said, showing them the read-out in the panel at the stick’s crown. “I was going to use it for washing but it’s just the right temperature now for the little mite. Come on, let’s dip him in.”

  “After we feed it.” The dog’s ears waggled as if it understood. They gave it the ham bone Mary had kept aside for the soup and filled a bowl with water. After the dog had eaten its fill, they plunged it into the pot. It yelped and struggled for a moment then its eyes fluttered closed and it seemed to enjoy being scrubbed, dried and pampered.

  It turned out to be white, not grey, and quite a pretty little thing. It wore a slender leather collar studded with black jet surrounded by rings of gold. A lovely piece that must have been worth a small fortune.

  “Let me have a closer look,” Tilda said, removing the collar. “It might have a name or…” Her sentence trailed away as a sliver of tingles crept from her hand along her arm. Her fingers grew warm, as if the collar threw off heat. Impossible.

  And yet she knew it wasn’t. This strange phenomenon had happened several times over her twenty-four years. Whenever she touched an object separated from its owner, her skin heated, as if the source of the heat was the object itself. And then a clarity came to her, like a vision of a path to follow.

  Her mother had explained what it meant when Tilda had first asked her about it. She’d been barely eight years old. The object was like a talisman and it was using her to find its way back to the owner. Tilda’s mother had possessed the skill too, but had warned Tilda to keep it a secret. At the time, Tilda didn’t know why but later she did.

  Divination was a dangerous skill to possess in a time when machines ruled and the men who controlled them were treated like Gods with wealth and privilege thrown at them. Anyone possessing paranormal abilities—a power not based on mechanics but on the unexplained—was treated with suspicion and fear. The most powerful, the hellhags, were blamed for all the ills to befall a community. An epidemic of disease was said to be caused by the hellhags, the unexplained death of a child or the occurrence of any strange phenomena was laid at the feet of women with even the most tenuous skill.

  It only took one accusation, one pointed finger, and an entire community would jump at the chance to punish the person responsible for their tribulations. According to the law, hellhags were to be put on trial and hung until dead. It was a long English tradition, one deeply entrenched in the hearts of even the good. No one would deny the simple folk a target for their fears, least of all the inventors. A cynical person would claim the inventors didn’t want rivals more powerful than themselves, didn’t want anyone to take their place at the helm of the government and the forefront of progress. And since their class held the ear of the law-makers, the law stated that anyone possessing strong non-mechanical abilities must be put to death.

  Tilda, like her mother before her, may only possess a weak and rather useless talent for finding people but it was not a talent she wanted to advertise to the world. She didn’t want to be branded a hellhag by mistake. Letitia too had shown signs of some skill at divination but hers was even weaker than Tilda’s.

  The heat from the collar grew more intense so Tilda placed it on the table and plopped down on one of the chairs. She and Mary exchanged glances. Letitia was too busy cuddling the dog to notice.

  “You all right, miss?” Mary asked, eyeing Tilda closely.

  “Did it have any writing on it?” Letitia said, nodding at the collar. She scratched the dog under the chin and made coo-coo noises at it.

  “Er, yes. An address. I’ll take the dog back.” Tilda scooped it up.

  Letitia pouted. “Now?”

  “I’m sure the poor thing would like to see its owner again.”

  “I suppose.” Letitia sighed. “Some little boy or girl must be missing him.”

  “Be careful, miss,” Mary said, fixing the collar around the dog’s neck.

  “Why?” Letitia asked, frowning at one and then the other.

  “There’s a lot of construction work going on in the city,” Tilda said quickly, scooping the dog into her arms. Its fuzzy little face nestled against her chest. “Of course I’ll be careful.”

  Tilda set off immediately with the dog tucked under her arm. It would be lovely to see it back where it belonged. As Letitia said, perhaps the owner was a child. How happy they’d be to see their beloved pet again! It seemed to enjoy the company of people and didn’t mind the loud grinding of digging machines, the whir of cranes and the shouts of workers that had taken over London of late.

  She followed the path laid out for her by the divination, a somewhat tenuous thread that pulled her along. Whenever it weakened, she touched the dog’s collar and the way was made clear to her once more. The process took a great deal of concentration, and so keen was she to reunite the dog with its owner, she walked right up to the palace gates
before realizing where her divination had taken her. Straight to the queen.

  It wasn’t that the sovereign was so terrible. Tilda actually admired her. It mustn’t be easy for a woman to rule over a rapidly changing country dominated for so many centuries by men. It’s just that the queen was the one who’d reinstated the law to terminate all the hellhags after a deranged one had tried to assainate her early in her reign. The country had gone nearly three hundred years without incident and hellhags had become normal members of society in that time, neither feared nor loathed until the horror of thirty-seven.

  Not that Tilda was a hellhag. A little skill at divination didn’t put her into that category. Nevertheless, it was best to keep even her small amount of power from the authorities. They tended to get over-zealous.

  With her heartbeat skipping more erratically than it usually did after divining, she walked up to one of the red-coated guards standing to attention at the gate and told him about the dog. She gave him a story about having seen the queen’s servant out walking it once and so was able to identify it as belonging to Her Majesty when she found it. The guard gave her an unreadable stare. He opened his mouth to speak when a man approached. He was tall with a pointed black goatee and moustache and bright striped vest of green and gold. Set against his cream colored coat and breeches he looked different to the dreary figures who usually walked the city streets.

  “Forgive me,” he said, bowing. “I couldn’t help overhearing. My name is Sir Magnus Grimshaw. I live in the palace.” He indicated the grand colonnaded façade of the royal residence beyond the gates and fountain.

  “Oh, then perhaps you could return the dog,” she said, holding out the animal.

  He winced and shook his head. “The guard will. I simply want to ask you how you knew it belonged to Her Majesty.”